The Spirit Horse
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Silver goes in search of his spirit walker and finds a whole mess of trouble.


**I do not own the Lone Ranger. I just took it and ran with it like a five year old with a kite, dragging it inevitably through the mud.**

**Any mythology or cultural references within this story come from the Lone Ranger, or Wikipedia. Inaccuracies are unintentional and no offense is meant to anyone.**

**This story does contain some horse prejudice.**

* * *

The horse knew he had a destiny before he wobbled onto his little colt legs for the first time.

No sooner had he plopped wetly onto the ground in a cloud of dust then his mother turned to him.

"You are special," she whickered and he perked up an ear to listen. "You are a spirit horse."

The foal was more immediately concerned with finding out how his legs worked, but his curiosity (which proved to be something of a nuisance) persevered.

"What is a spirit horse?"

His mother explained as she cleaned his face. They were descended from a long line of great horses who were revered and prized by the local Comanche tribes. They were wind drinkers, medicine horses. They possessed a close connection with the Great Spirits. They were not like the other horses (Whether it was the Comanche who first put the idea into the horses' heads, or the other way around was unknown.)

The rest of their herd knew this, and gave the mare and her colt a wide berth out of deference (in some cases annoyance).

The colt quickly discovered what being a spirit horse meant. It meant he could run faster than the other foals, and for longer. His legs ceased to wobble and became miniature tornadoes, carrying him out of sight until his mother had to whicker him back.

He was smarter too. His first winter, several foals and an old mare were taken by a hungry pack of coyotes. The white colt saw the traps they set for him. He avoided them for a time, running over streams, through trees, and when they tried to trap him in a gully, he climbed the boulders.

And that is where the spirit colt discovered his true talent.

Increasingly his mother discovered him on inclines, on hills, on plateaus, on large slippery rocks in the middle of fast moving streams.

She would shriek at him and he would return, tail-wagging (and often wet).

And then, when he was not quite a yearling he leapt over a buffalo.

The animal nearly trampled him and the other horses decided that perhaps the spirit colt was not quite so much extra intelligent as stupid.

Some (the same ones who scoffed at all this Comanche Spirit Horse nonsense) said that there wasn't any difference and resumed grazing.

The colt was not bothered. He knew his destiny after all. He was meant to do more than eat and run and roll in the grass like a normal horse.

* * *

It was the hat that first attracted his attention.

He had not expected to find his destiny on such an ordinary day. He was standing on a slim plateau in order to catch the rare, cool breezes that sometimes rushed through the canyons when he first saw it.

It was big and white, like him.

But the man _beneath_ the hat was far more interesting. The tribe he traveled with was obviously not his own. They moved their horses like a herd, with a single purpose. At best the one with the hat trailed along with them uncertainly. He stopped too soon or too late, meandered along the trail, and confused the poor animal carrying him.

He was different. Not a spirit horse, certainly, he walked on only two legs. But he was different in a similar way.

He was a Spirit Walker.

The horse reared up with joy and saw the Walker look at him.

The man's eyes were light.

Their spirits were the same.

* * *

The feathered one took a great deal of convincing.

Men, the horse discovered, were not very good at communication. They did not twitch their ears, or flare their nostrils, or switch their tails or speak any sort of normal language. The poor things seemed to rely mostly on noise.

The horse was pleased when he saw the Comanche warrior dragging his spirit walker. Comanche were usually more sensible than the other men racing around on their ponies after their cattle. He even knew some of their noises like "spirit," "horse," and "medicine."

But this Comanche with the bird on his head was unusually nearsighted.

"No, no, no, no!"

He was obviously unhappy.

He marched up and down waving his arm at one of the dead men in the hole.

The horse did not mind. He did not want _that one_, just his Spirit Walker. The Comanche was welcome to keep the other ones for himself if he really wanted them.

"You make mistake! Him halfwit. Wet brain." The Indian said and gestured at the Spirit Walker.

The horse sighed and tried another form of communication. Men, he had observed, often pointed with their hands. He gently padded the Spirit Walker with his hoof.

Inadvertently he uncovered the star on the man's chest. He and the Comanche stared transfixed. The horse knew it was a star because it shone like the ones in the sky at night. Obviously this was a sign. And he looked smugly at the Indian.

The feathered one sighed, and bent to drag the Spirit Walker out of the hole.

The horse did not put up a fuss when the Comanche insisted on placing the other man on a rickety platform perched at the top of another plateau. It was obviously important to him. Men were always more concerned with how things were done than what was done.

And besides, he liked high places.

* * *

His Spirit Walker was really still just a colt.

He wobbled into the camp at night on shaky legs, bleating like a calf. He was exhausted and confused and did not calm down until the feathered one had given him some food and sat him down before a fire.

It was obvious the boy understood very little about the world. His spirit was strong and the horse had not been mistaken about the fire of life in the bright eyes beneath the mask. But he was impatient and loud, and often got himself into trouble.

The first time was easy to fix. The horse heard the boy's whistle several streets away. How clever to make a sound like a foal whinnying for help (inaccurate and heavily accented but still). It was a simple matter to carry him and the Comanche out of reach of the mob.

It was easy enough to climb on the roof of the flaming barn too. His whickers of comfort and reassurance were met with a squawk of surprise, which amused him. Bony knees gripped him tight on both sides as he sailed cleanly over the inferno and returned the silly men to the ground where they belonged.

The third time was really just ridiculous. How on earth had something so small and skinny managed to get itself stuck in the ground so deeply? The boy ignored the spirit horse's questions, and squirmed as the scorpions crawled over his face. The horse licked them off dutifully as a mare would clean her foal, as his own mother had done for him many times.

At least he hadn't given his mother this much trouble.

* * *

He made certain to pick up the Spirit Walker's hat when the boy dropped it, and then he munched on some leaves while he waited. It was best not to interfere all the time. Let the young one wander and blunder a little. How else was he meant to learn?

The horse was not worried. After all, the Great Spirits had brought them together. They had a destiny to fulfill, he and the boy. The Spirit Walker would not die before his time.

It was a long wait. He finished the leaves on the bottom branches and moved onto the ones near the top, balancing nimbly as he had done many times before.

Finally the boy and the feathered one dropped out of the sky safely into the lake, as though the spirits had placed them there.

He watched them drag themselves onto the bank and waited for them to finish speaking to each other. The Comanche often had a steadying effect on the fiery spirit of the other man. He was a good companion for the Spirit Walker.

When they seemed calmer the horse called to them in his own language.

They were no longer surprised to see him, but he whickered in amusement anyway and returned the white hat to the boy's head.

* * *

The horse did not think for a moment that this was the end of their destiny. Or that the boy would be able to keep himself out of danger for very long.

But for the time being the world was calm, and he listened contentedly to the strange noises of his companions.

He was starting to recognize some of them, after painful and tedious study.

"Kemosabe," was one, apparently a name for the Spirit Walker. "Tonto," was another that the boy spoke more and more often as he looked to the older man.

There was a third word that had been used with many different voices. But the spirit horse perked his ears up when the boy said it, pawing his neck affectionately.

"Silver," the boy said, and the Comanche hummed.

"Silver," the Indian said, and his voice rang in approval of the younger man. "It is a good name."

Silver was the name of the shiny stones they'd found, like the star that had been on the Spirit Walker's chest, or the ones in the sky overhead.

The horse whickered, and tossed his head. His Spirit Walker was a clever young colt indeed.

Silver was a good name.


End file.
